


Heirlooms

by asexualshepard



Series: The Adventures of Brynja Cousland, Warden of Ferelden [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Budding Love, DAO Timeline, Developing Relationship, F/M, Late Night Conversations, Talking, Warden Alistair, someone help me, tbh i have no idea how to use tags on here okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4563471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualshepard/pseuds/asexualshepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And that’s exactly why I think it’s actually something,” he smiled. “If you were really thinking about nothing, you would have said you were indeed thinking about something.”</p><p>Confusion creased Bryn’s brow. </p><p>“What?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heirlooms

Alistair wasn’t sure what woke him. He was a heavy sleeper, and normally it would take an ogre crashing through their camp to get him out of his bedroll in the middle of the night. Outside was cold, inside was warm, and he fully intended to stick with the warmth, thank you very much. So, he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Naturally, it was then that he discovered what had woken him in the first place.

His bladder lurched. He usually relieved himself when the sun rose and they began packing up camp, but this was dire. With a groan, he removed himself from his bedroll and tugged on his cotton breeches. Moving had allayed the pressure building low in his stomach. A sigh of relief slipped between his lips as he pulled a shirt on—just in case anyone else was up.

He undid the ties on his tent and poked his head out. It was only a moment before he mentally gave himself a pat on the back for grabbing the shirt, as he was indeed not the only one awake.

Bryn was sitting on the ground near the fire. Her mabari—Njall—sat next to her, his eyes closed as she gently used one hand to stroke the wide area between his eyes. Her other hand held up her head, her elbow balanced on her knee. Alistair was quiet as he emerged from his tent, his bladder momentarily forgotten.

“You’re up late,” he muttered sleepily as he plopped down next to her. He’d fully expected her to jump at his sudden appearance, but instead she just glanced over at him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she explained as she returned her eyes to the fire, which was much less a fire and more just sparking embers.

It had been nearly a month since their journey had started, and Alistair had only seen her act so solemnly a handful of times—at least in camp. Most of the time, when she wasn’t grinning, it was because he was talking about something that upset him, and her sadness was nothing more than empathy towards him. That is why he was concerned.

“What are you thinking about?”

His question was soft, just as his eyes were as they swept up and down her face.

Bryn took a deep breath. Then, her head gently shook. “It’s nothing.”

“And that’s exactly why I think it’s actually _something_ ,” he smiled. “If you were really thinking about nothing, you would have said you were indeed thinking about something.”

Confusion creased Bryn’s brow.

“ _What?_ ”

Alistair smiled fondly as he leaned closer to her and bumped her with his shoulder. “ _What are you thinking about?_ ”

Bryn’s eyes flickered with movement for a moment, though only coming to rest on her lap and various parts of the fire pit. Alistair could practically hear the cogs going ‘round and ‘round in her head. He thought, for just a moment, that she wasn’t going to say anything at all.

“Earlier,” she started quietly. “You mentioned not having anything of Duncan’s.”

He waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, his concern grew.

“Bryn?” he nudged.

Another moment passed, and Bryn sat up straight, her hands lacing together in her lap as she violently shook her head. “No, I shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” The smile she directed at him was as false as Loghain’s charges set against the Wardens.

Alistair heaved a breath. “You know, I’m constantly complaining, and you always listen,” he observed, leaning back to plant both of his hands on the ground behind him. “Doesn’t matter what it’s about. You just… let me get it all off my chest.”

Bryn sighed as she glanced back at him. She turned away again to pull Njall into her lap despite the fact that the dog was nearly bigger than she was. He didn’t fuss, though, and willingly draped his front paws and head across her legs.

“Let me help you, Bryn.” Alistair’s voice was near a whisper. “Please.”

She bit her lip, running her fingers over Njall’s rough fur. “I don’t have anything of my parents’ either.”

Alistair suddenly felt like the idiot he no doubt was. “Oh, Maker, Bryn. I didn’t even… I should have—”

“You see, this is why I didn’t want to talk about it,” she interrupted.

Alistair froze. “What do you mean?”

Suddenly, her eyes were on him. If someone had asked him to explain the look in her eyes at that exact moment, he would have said _angry_ , because that was the closest he could get to what was actually there.

“I may have lost two parents instead of one, but that doesn’t make your suffering any less than my own.”

Her words swam in his brain for a moment. It took him a few seconds to reassemble and make sense of them, but even when he did manage to think about them in the right order, they didn’t make much sense to him.

“I… I don’t—”

“Alistair, every time I talk about my parents, you belittle the pain you feel about losing Duncan,” she explained. Her fingers had stopped moving and now simply rested against Njall’s body. Bryn’s blue eyes stared Alistair down. He wasn’t sure what to say.

Then, she spoke instead. “You _deserve_ to be able to grieve.”

Alistair felt something in him drop. His jaw flapped about as he searched for something to say—something that would be worthy of her ears. He only thought of something when she turned back towards the fire.

“So do you,” he muttered as he sat upwards and leaned towards her, trying to see her face. He needed to see her face. “I’m sorry, Bryn.”

When she shifted her eyes to him once more, they weren’t as hard as they had been moments before. He figured that this meant she accepted his apology.

“Do you… want to talk about them?”

Bryn nodded after a brief second of contemplation.

Alistair scooted closer to her. “My ears are yours.”

Their faces were fairly close now—close enough that Alistair noticed the small scar on the bow of her lip. Her breath was gentle on his cheek. It was… pleasant.

“I don’t know where to start,” Bryn uttered, turning her face back towards the fire.

“Somewhere simple,” Alistair suggested, his eyes remaining fixed to her face. “What were their names?”

Njall removed himself from her lap as she pulled her knees up to her chest and folded her arms around her shins. 

“Bryce and Eleanor,” she said. “My brother’s name was… is… Fergus. His wife Oriana and their son Oren stayed with us in Highever Castle.”

“Did they…?”

Bryn closed her eyes and shook her head. “No.” She nearly swallowed the word.

A heavy silence fell between the two of them. Alistair had known that her parents had died—had heard her say the word _family_ once—but he hadn’t realized she’d been an aunt.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to offer her comfort and hope, but both of those things were out of his grasp. He’d never offered anyone either of them.

“I… Bryn…” he breathed, his brow creasing in pain. If this was the same empathy that she felt every time he talked about Duncan, he would definitely need to apologize later.

Her hand rose to wipe moisture from her eyes and cheeks. “Perhaps this is a conversation for another night,” she sputtered.

“Not if you need it _now_ ,” Alistair pledged. Her eyes, now red around the edges, drifted towards him. “I’m not going anywhere unless you ask me to.”

Bryn rattled out a sigh, tears coming again. Then, she was leaning over and pressing her head into the space beneath his chin, her arms wrapping around one of his.

“Thank you, Alistair,” she whispered against his collar bone.

The arm that wasn’t being held against her came up to wrap around her shoulders. “Whenever you need me,” he swore.

Bryn then divulged the entire story of what happened the night Howe invaded her home. Alistair listened, holding her when she needed it and offering small nuggets of hope when he felt appropriate. Just as promised, he didn’t leave until she asked, and then only when neither of them could hold their heads up any more.

It was only after she asked him to get some sleep and crawled into her tent to do the same that he stood and made his way into the cover of trees to do what he’d gotten out of bed to do in the first place.


End file.
